I was raised in this house until the age of twelve. It was here in the little dining room that my mother pecked out a novel, which alas was never published. It was from here that I took her copy on my bike to the Dawson News – not a bad start for a budding writer. My father, who had once been apprenticed to a cabinet maker, built the north addition – adding a kitchen and an extra bedroom, when we kids were too old for our cribs. In the summers I slept out on the porch, reading the comics my grandfather sent me from Oakville. (Barney Google, Tillie the Toiler, Li’l Orphan Annie). The house was heated by hot air from a wood-burning furnace in the cellar, now long gone. My years here were both stimulating and happy. I hope the months you all spend here are equally rewarding.- Pierre Berton